Getting ready to leave for a memorial service in couple minutes. Both my aunt & uncle died within days of one another recently and my cousins arranged for this combination event. My own family are some of the attendees. So in the last hour I jotted down this…
Aunt & Uncle Memorial
Dodging Nazi bullets in Holland
The year was 1945
Later cried in his sleep
From wounds terribly deep
Then return to this world still alive
She was his true one and only
Mother of many a bride
Broken and blind
The last of her kind
No longer anything left to hide
Cindy and Mike didn’t make it
Matter of fact, neither did Dad
Only five out of seven
To send two off to heaven
And think about the lives that they had
Damn it all to hell anyways
There’s only so much time in a week
Over months over years
I rarely was near
But I wouldn’t have missed it for Pete
Mother was there like the rock in a garden
She’ll be the last one to go
A footnote in history
Her secrets a mystery
She’ll also be the last one to know
Hope the world has a good memory
But I kind of think it really does not
But for the moment at least
I leave them in peace
And assure them that they won’t be forgot
^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Great tribute to them, Zin.
(Aug 6, 2023 06:47 AM)C C Wrote: [ -> ]^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Great tribute to them, Zin.
Thanks.
Because he was a war veteran, the first part of the service was conducted by the local branch of Canadian Legion. To be honest it was quite good. Took about ten minutes (no hymn). It made me think of what not only my uncle went through but for all soldiers who put their lives on the line. They had a well written little production that also reminded those in attendance of their duty and that we all might have to defend God & country one day.
http://scottweb2.frontrunnerpro.com/myse...vice-rites
(Aug 6, 2023 03:29 PM)Zinjanthropos Wrote: [ -> ] (Aug 6, 2023 06:47 AM)C C Wrote: [ -> ]^ ^ ^ ^ ^
Great tribute to them, Zin.
Thanks.
Because he was a war veteran, the first part of the service was conducted by the local branch of Canadian Legion. To be honest it was quite good. Took about ten minutes (no hymn). It made me think of what not only my uncle went through but for all soldiers who put their lives on the line. They had a well written little production that also reminded those in attendance of their duty and that we all might have to defend God & country one day.
http://scottweb2.frontrunnerpro.com/myse...vice-rites
I went to one where he was a D-Day survivor. He woke up screaming quite frequently. The daughter was extremely religious. She had a rough life. It was something that she needed, but during the service she said that she was worried about her father being admitted into heaven because of the lives he had taken during that time. If he was defending 'God' and country that should’ve been his ticket in, right?
No verse structure allowed in prose poems! They normally consist of single paragraphs (no line breaks), but I splintered the one below into multiple paragraphs so it would be easier to read. Two other examples of prose poems are "Information" and "[Kill bugs dead.]" Just enter each title into a search along with "prose poem" and they'll pop up.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
The Prose Poem
by Campbell McGrath
On the map it is precise and rectilinear as a chessboard, though driving past you would hardly notice it, this boundary line or ragged margin, a shallow swale that cups a simple trickle of water, less rill than rivulet, more gully than dell, a tangled ditch grown up throughout with a fearsome assortment of wildflowers and bracken. There is no fence, though here and there a weathered post asserts a former claim, strands of fallen wire taken by the dust.
To the left a cornfield carries into the distance, dips and rises to the blue sky, a rolling plain of green and healthy plants aligned in close order, row upon row upon row. To the right, a field of wheat, a field of hay, young grasses breaking the soil, filling their allotted land with the rich, slow-waving spectacle of their grain. As for the farmers, they are, for the most part, indistinguishable: here the tractor is red, there yellow; here a pair of dirty hands, there a pair of dirty hands.
They are cultivators of the soil. They grow crops by pattern, by acre, by foresight, by habit. What corn is to one, wheat is to the other, and though to some eyes the similarities outweigh the differences it would be as unthinkable for the second to commence planting corn as for the first to switch over to wheat.
What happens in the gully between them is no concern of theirs, they say, so long as the plough stays out, the weeds stay in the ditch where they belong, though anyone would notice the wind-sewn cornstalks poking up their shaggy ears like young lovers run off into the bushes, and the kinship of these wild grasses with those the farmer cultivates is too obvious to mention, sage and dun-colored stalks hanging their noble heads, hoarding exotic burrs and seeds, and yet it is neither corn nor wheat that truly flourishes there, nor some jackalopian hybrid of the two.
What grows in that place is possessed of a beauty all its own, ramshackle and unexpected, even in winter, when the wind hangs icicles from the skeletons of briars and small tracks cross the snow in search of forgotten grain; in the spring the little trickle of water swells to welcome frogs and minnows, a muskrat, a family of turtles, nesting doves in the verdant grass; in summer it is a thoroughfare for raccoons and opossums, field mice, swallows and black birds, migrating egrets, a passing fox; in autumn the geese avoid its abundance, seeking out windrows of toppled stalks, fatter grain more quickly discerned, more easily digested.
Of those that travel the local road, few pay that fertile hollow any mind, even those with an eye for what blossoms, vetch and timothy, early forsythia, the fatted calf in the fallow field, the rabbit running for cover, the hawk's descent from the lightning-struck tree. You've passed this way yourself many times, and can tell me, if you would, do the formal fields end where the valley begins, or does everything that surrounds us emerge from its embrace?
Black Friday (November tidings)
Quickly, quickly,
pass through that day.
Comfort not those sickly,
nor falter for the stray.
Will the old gods intervene
when the victims' pyres are lit?
Will the halls be red or green
when the poised marauders quit?
Boldly, boldly,
defend the gate!
Sunrise glowers coldly
at the masses who wait.
Survival is a beacon
after tawny beasts flood in.
Only saints left uneaten
shall enjoy the final sin.
Harken, harken,
our times are cursed.
If the gentry bargain
and hill tribes plunder first.
Let brash mortals buy and trade
as fey halflings stock the shelves.
Let their paladins parade
as new victors preen themselves.
Hasten, hasten,
reach high retreats!
The mad throng will chasten
stragglers lost in the streets.
Eschew fabled jubilees,
and be deaf to frantic howls
of pale wretches on their knees,
when the Devil drains his bowels!
The frenzy of Black Friday is over. Time to "swing" into the dread of next month's ongoing shopping spree and preparations.
- - - - - - - - - -
Yuletide Noir (2024 version)
Winter sinks down, the snow builds up.
Don't drink the slumber in old Odin's cup.
Stay awake, catch a midnight muse.
Slap the poor thing with your holiday blues.
A Viking theme, a masquerade.
Not a gunman's gal nor a kingpin's maid.
Yet you're here, you know how to play.
Racketeers revel till it's Christmas Day.
Thor meets Baldur, they're speaking low.
Guess who eavesdrops beneath the mistletoe.
Dirt is sweet, but loot is the best.
One cache hidden is worth two gems possessed.
Jingle some bells, swear some gang vows.
The season is arching its heathen brows.
Dance downstairs, clean the Norse lord's sleigh.
Find yourself a gift before Christmas Day.
Streets aglitter, houses adorned.
Carolers sing like a snitch to be scorned.
Roll your doubts, chance the game of fools.
Point is to vanish under Midgard rules.
Sermon runs long, much to atone.
Huginn and Muninn have already flown.
Rappel cliffs, make your getaway.
And you might live to count to New Year's Day.
When Skadi stalks, her prey is doomed.
The other mobsters seem quaintly costumed.
Dodge arrows, and Ullr's bribed Feds.
Everybody here is missing their meds.
An icy waste, it stretches far.
Reaching the end erases who you are.
Take soiled gold, go where palm fronds sway.
And you might live to count to New Year's Day.
--Cece
YOU DON’T JUST LOSE SOMEONE ONCE
"You lose them over and over,
sometimes in the same day.
When the loss, momentarily forgotten,
creeps up,
and attacks you from behind.
Fresh waves of grief as the realisation hits home,
they are gone.
Again.
You don’t just lose someone once,
you lose them every time you open your eyes to a new dawn,
and as you awaken,
so does your memory,
so does the jolting bolt of lightning that rips into your heart,
they are gone.
Again.
Losing someone is a journey,
not a one-off.
There is no end to the loss,
there is only a learned skill on how to stay afloat,
when it washes over.
Be kind to those who are sailing this stormy sea,
they have a journey ahead of them,
and a daily shock to the system each time they realise,
they are gone,
Again.
You don’t just lose someone once,
you lose them every day,
for a lifetime."
©Donna Ashworth
The Villain
by W. H. Davies
While joy gave clouds the light of stars,
That beamed wher'er they looked;
And calves and lambs had tottering knees,
Excited, while they sucked;
While every bird enjoyed his song,
Without one thought of harm or wrong--
I turned my head and saw the wind,
Not far from where I stood,
Dragging the corn by her golden hair,
Into a dark and lonely wood.
Go West Young Man
by James Laughlin
Yessir they're all named
either Ken or Stan or Don
every one of them and
those aren't just nick-
names either no they're
really christened like
that just Ken or Stan or
Don and you shake hands
with anybody you run into
no matter who the hell
it is and say "glad to
know you Ken glad to
know you Don" and then
two minutes later (you
may not have said ten
words to the guy) you
shake hands again and
say "glad to have met
you Stan glad to" and
they haven't heard much
about Marx and the class
struggle because they
haven't had to and by
god it makes a country
that is fit to live in
and by god I'm glad to
know you Don I'm glad!
Apart from the title, the earlier one was totally different.
- - - - - - - - - -
Where the hell is Davidson? (2022 version)
Mama looked deeper in the cellar.
Daddy came back from the field.
There just wasn't much we could tell her
Of what a wider search might yield.
We all know he's her favorite one,
Where the hell is Davidson?
He mingled with the maverick crowd:
The poor, the maimed, the outlaws.
Shaming good folk that were only proud,
Reminding them of their flaws.
When a hood rides in and waves his gun,
Where the hell is Davidson?
Time scrapes away at the flaking paint;
Some day a ceiling will drop.
Trumpet booms grow increasingly faint.
Our flock meets on the hilltop.
When your chances correlate to none,
Where the hell is Davidson?
Counting the days since the tin stars fell.
Along roads, a thick stench reigns.
Waiting for news in a trashed hotel;
Watching rats chew old remains.
Sick of signs, the final stage is done.
Where the hell is Davidson?
Church menders climb down from the steeple,
Bewildered by what they've missed.
A thief has stolen seven people.
Those accepted on a list.
We're left here 'cause of his roguish fun.
Damn to hell that Davidson!